They just always know.

Whenever you’re going away somewhere and you’re packing, your Mam will always pipe up with something you would never have thought of.

ADAPTERS!

PUT A LOCK ON THAT BAG, I HAVE ONE IN THE DRAWER!

HAVE YOU GOT YOUR SUN CREAM?

SOME SUCKY SWEETS FOR THE PLANE!

BRING SOME PLASTERS, YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT’LL HAPPEN!

BRING A TOWEL, YOU ALWAYS NEED A TOWEL YOU KNOW.

Oh mother.

Where’d we be without Mams?

Let me give the backstory.

Everyone remember when the fancy Motorola Razr first came out? That really slim, flip phone. Yeah. I got that. It cost €300 and was unbelievably shit. It’d have little panic attacks where it just stopped sending or receiving texts. This was fixed only when you turned it off and on again. The problem was that I wasn’t always alert to this and would often think everyone was just being rude to me before it dawned that the phone had fucked up again.

When I closed it too fast, it’d have a fit where the screen would flash all white.

In short, that Razr phone is rubbish. Were it a real razor, I wouldn’t trust it to shave my shit. Eventually, my friends all chipped in for my birthday present to get me vouchers to buy a new phone (that’s how bad that Razr was).

I got a seriously cool Nokia. Again, a flip phone. It had a button on the side that flipped it open. Sliiiiick.

About two weeks after I got it, I was drunk and running in some drunk football, slipped and crushed the phone.

It was fucked.

That was it. Never again am I going to spend big money on a phone, says I.

So then I went and picked up the cheapest phone I could find in the shop.

And that’s when I met ol’ Sony Ericsson.  I’m too lazy to find the exact model online, and I reckon my phone wouldn’t like that anyway. He’s a modest chap and never liked the limelight. Here’s a picture of a similar phone though :

Let’s call him Sonny. Like the character in the Godfather. His favourite film by the way.

I took an instant liking to him as there were some curse words in his predictive text dictionary. Straight away he knew the kinda guy I was. He didn’t judge me as I entered new words into his vocabulary such as “cunt” and “cock”.

There was no fucking up. No shitty little panic attacks. Sonny was just a cool cat, never caving under pressure.

I dropped him countless times. Showed utter disregard for his well-being. Threw him around the place, and never did he complain. Just got right on up, dusted himself down and got on with his job.

The thing is, your phone knows you better than anyone in the world. Your phone sees who you’re talking to, what you’re saying, everything.

I imagine my phone offering my a high-five when I receive a flirty text from a female.

I imagine my phone saying “sorry about this, man” when he has to show me a message that I’m not going to like.

I imagine my phone disapproving when I’m too lazy to text back.

I imagine my phone laughing at some of the funny texts I receive/send.

I imagine my phone cringing and saying “You sure about this, mate?” as I send drunken texts out to half my phone book.

The other week I dropped my phone into a pint of water. I actually exclaimed.

“Noooooooo!”.

Quickly took it out, cradling it like a mother would her injured child.

Took the battery and sim out. I hated seeing him like this. It’s like seeing a loved one on life support.

Dried him off, and gently placed him in a bowl of dry, uncooked rice which is very good for absorbing the water - so I’m told by the internet.

After a while of this, I got the hoover out and hoovered the little fella.

Gave it a go.

It came on.

You fucking little beauty. You sexy little cunt of a phone.

Went out that night and it was working fine. Worked fine for weeks after.

What a soldier.

After all this time, all the blows he took, he had every right to wither and die after I dropped him in water. But no. On he went.

Then last Friday, the day before I went away, the screen started fucking up. It got to a stage where I could switch it off for a good few minutes, then switch it on again. It’d work for a while, then the screen would mess up again. Technically I could have received calls and stuff still. But this wouldn’t work while I’m away. I definitely needed a phone while interrailing.

Now, at first I was angry for the timing of the phone breaking. Literally the day before I left. But then I realised, it was obvious what had happened.

Think of a footballer. His knee feels a bit dodgy and there’s a cup final next week. Does he decide now that he can or can’t play, or wait until closer to the match? He waits of course. Then, on the day before the final, if he still doesn’t feel up to it, he pulls out, for the good of the team. Not worth risking it if it’ll be detrimental to the team’s overall performance.

This is exactly what my phone did. He wanted to last, but when it came to three weeks of interrailing, he decided he was feeling too dodgy and couldn’t hack it anymore. He’d rather me replace him with an Irish phone that I can return if broken, rather than have to buy a phone abroad.

Fair fucking play to you Sonny. Selfless right til the end.

RIP Sonny.

GONE BUT NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN xXx

Interrailing. Starting in Brussels. Flying home from Prague.

Lucky for you, I’ll still have a few posts coming up on here while I’m away. I’ll schedule a couple of posts and if I manage to get to internet cafés on my travels I’ll try to update. That’s dedication.

I’ll either return as a quivering little wreck of a man, malnourished and scarred both mentally and physically. Or a bloated, dribbling, hungover wreck of a man, malnourished and scarred both mentally and physically. It depends on the drink : food ratio

So anyway, gotta go.

I feel like I’m forgetting something.

You know the way.

Oh, I’m your biggest fan, your music got me through some really hard times, and I just wanna say th-th-thank y-y- (inaudible through sobbing and tears).

So, what of stuff did it for me?

A man who could spin either rhyme or metaphor and turn it into melody.

A musical marvel.

A man who wore a baseball cap like no other.

Fred motherfuckin’ Durst :

If the above face isn’t that of a lyrical genius, then I don’t know what is, friends.

The lyrics that truly changed my life and guided me along the way are :

“Hey kids, take my advice, you don’t want to step into a big pile of shit”

(Fred Durst in “My Generation” by Limp Bizkit).

Wow. Just take it in folks.

Such eloquency.

Oh no mate. You see this pile of shit right here? Well I’ll tell you one thing you don’t wanna do : step in it. Oh no. One of the last things you wanna be doing is stepping in the afore-mentioned pile of shit.

Up until I heard this song and let these words flow from my stereo and into my soul, I’d been romping around town jumping into every pile of shit I laid eyes on. Sometimes, when all the shit had been jumped in, I overate and went into my back garden, let nature take its course, and had a lovely jump around in the shit. Everyone loves their own brand yeah?

But then along came Fred. And I realised, I don’t want to step into these piles of shit.

I’d lost all my friends. They were either sick of the smell or sick of me calling around to their houses either carrying a bag of shit for jumpin’ in, or asking them if they had any shit lying around. My clothing and washing budget was through the roof. My bowels were starting to wane under the relentless pressure they were under.

No, no, no. It was all wrong. And Fred showed me the way. In the next line of the song, he tells me what I should be doing.

“Captain’s drunk, your world is Titanic. Floating on the funk, So get your groove on.“

There it is ladies and gents. I had to get my bloomin’ groove on.

Halt this mindless stepping into piles of shit! Alas, it’s time to float on the funk and get my groove on!

And that I did.

I’d groove around the village endlessly, watching the faces of the locals as they realised shitboy was no more. I was now a groovy guy. A regular cool cat I was. I’d be groovin’ and movin’, and between women choosin’. That’s a little line I made up myself there, you can see Fred’s lyrical prowess is rubbing off on me.

So thank you Mr. Durst.

Just, thank you.

I’ve narrowed it down to three for my area :

Option 1 :

Fianna Fáil candidate, Shaheen Ahmed. Friendly looking face on the chap.

Option 2 :

Fianna Gael candidate, Derek Keating. Good fella. Set up the local skate park, so he’s down with the kids innit.

And finally, option 3 :

Look at her with her red lipstick and seductive smirk. Red suit. Red for the fiery passion she is no doubt fuelled by. This saucy little minx is Caitriona Jones, of Labour.

I’ll give ‘er some bleedin’ labour, wha?

G’wan love.

So there I am on Tuesday. Finished my exams. Free. Sunny day. No obligations. I can go out drinking in the afternoon if I want. The sun was out. That’s right, the fucking sun was out. On a day where I’m totally free. I cannot stress enough how rare such a situation is. Which explains the staccato style of this paragraph. Emphasis you see. Emphasis.

This doesn’t count as a goal against the world - it was home advantage. So the scoreline is Mark 0 - 0 Cunting World.

I was playing at home in my 90,000 capacity stadium. The fans roaring. Atmosphere had been building all day - even the opposition fans that had travelled over were enjoying themselves. Many came over without tickets, hoping to get some on the black market or just some sort of lucky break. The roar that greeted the players as they exited the tunnel and graced the grass was enough to tell us all that we were in for something special.

I went to Superquinn to get myself a roll. Managed to get there just before the school kids got their lunch and raped the place. Got a roll that was still warm, made up by a deli girl who was very friendly, rather than the usual seemingly suicidal drone I’ve come to expect to serve me. Left for home just as the little bastards were leaving my old school in their uniforms. I felt like I’d narrowly escaped a stampede. Went home and enjoyed the roll thoroughly while watching an episode of Arrested Development.

But still, Mark 0 -0 Cunting World.

I was all over them. Playing them off the park. With 68% of possession and a 90% pass completion rate. 3 corners, 4 shots, 2 of which were on target. I was dominating. It seemed the world just hadn’t turned up that day. I just couldn’t get that final pass to play my strikers in. It was only a matter of time though.

So I decide to go for a walk in the local demesne. It’s actually a really nice place, massive, with paths and a river going through it. So much greenery. There’s also this great spot that I absolutely love. It’s this ledge in the middle of the river, where you can sit with water running either side of you. It’s a tiny bit tricky getting there, but nothing too challenging at all. Was looking forward to going there to sit down for a bit and enjoy the sun.

However, when I get there I see my path to the spot is flooded. Disaster has struck. I don’t understand how this has happened when it’s so fucking sunny out.

Mark 0 - 1 Cunting World.

A routine back-pass from my full back was sliced by my usually reliable goalkeeper. He’s a good shot-stopper but a whole lot less talented with his feet. So the world had a corner, completely against the run of play. Their big centre-back decided to come up for it, and the big galoot went and fucking scored. Rose head and shoulders above my defence, and the keeper, with his now shaken confidence, could do nothing about it. Absolute disbelief on the pitch, the bench and around the stadium. The commentator notes that “nobody ever said football was fair”.

Oh fuck off Hamilton you patronising cunt. Switch on Sky for the match there, I’m sick of that Hamilton and Beglin and their shite commentating.

So I detour a little. Went for some ’splorin’. I found myself walking across this marshy land. Not only am I at risk of getting my shoes and jeans completely wrecked, I’m at risk of totally faceplanting. Suddenly my foot slips on the moist surface and I feel myself starting to go. I somehow manage to regain my balance and continue walking unscathed. I turn around and there’s apparently no witnesses.

The world has a goal ruled out for offside!

Big goal kick from the world, flicked on by their centre-midfielder-turned-centre-forward (due to injuries you see), and volleyed first time by their usual first choice striker. Spectacular goal. Celebrations were short-lived when they saw that the dreaded linesman’s flag was raised. Free out. Replays showed it was a correct decision. “Well done linesman” says the commentator.

What do you mean ‘well done’!? He’s supposed to do that. Don’t ‘well done’ him for doing a fucking simple part of his job. Fucking George fucking Hamilton. Why aren’t we watching this on Sky for fuck’s sake?

But then my venturing to new plains payed off. I found myself in what appeared to be duck central! It was a little spot of marshy land that went into the river. Little patches of grass around. There were ducks all around there, some just chilling out seemingly, others going into the river and some others coming back to what appeared to be their nesting area. The best bit was when I spotted a mother duck (I’ve seen “motherduck” a lot in predictive texting on my phone - never has it been the phrase I was looking for) bringing out her four babies to the river, watching them swim around a bit, then bringing them back. Not sure if they were looking for food or material for a nest or something, but they did this journey a good few times during the time I was there. It was genuinely great to watch. All a few feet away from me. I felt like David Attenborough.

As tough as it is for me to admit, it made me think about how much time I spend behind a screen or using some expensive technology, when there’s great things like this to be seen that are completely free and natural. I was put in such a good mood just by watching those ducks for a while and being in the sunshine surrounded by the river and endless green.

Mark 1 - 1 Cunting World.

My speedy winger was put through clean on goal from a beautiful through pass. He was hacked down cynically by their brute of a centre-half. Uproar from the crowds. Ref blew it up immediately, and strode over to the culprit purposefully, and brandished a red card. Cheers from the crowd. A few claps from some of my own players. No complaints from the opposition. “Well I think the lack of complaints says it all really Jim”, Hamilton quips.

Oh just shut up.

My dead ball specialist places the ball carefully for the free-kick. We need you now son. Now more than ever. He strides up and whips it into the top corner, up over the wall but dipping back down again just in time. A screamer. Keeper didn’t move, he barely saw it. We’re all square. Justice is done. And hopefully now we’ll capitalise on the sending off and bring this match home.

I decide to leave. So, feeling joyous and at one with mother nature, I choose the hard way back (the way I came originally) rather than the new easy path I’d spotted while watching the ducks. It’ll be more fun this way I reckon. I’m more aware of the risk of slipping this time, so I’ll be careful enough to ensure it doesn’t happen.

A shock substitution by Mark!

Instead of going out to seal the victory, for some reason unbeknownst to everyone in the stadium, bar the manager, I took off my best player - my centre-midfield maestro, the talisman. When the fourth official put up his number on the board to be taken off, groans rippled around the stadium. The player himself seemed shocked and shook his head a little, but was too modest to make an issue out of it.

I’m then walking across the marshy land again. Slip!

But manage to regain balance again. For the second time that day I’d narrowly avoided embarrassment in that way. Now feeling invincible, I approached the path nonchalantly. Nature was my bitch. I’d crossed those muddy plains, watched the ducks upclose and was now inches from the path once again.

I slipped.

I did not regain my balance.

I properly slipped.

In the mud.

My phone fell out of my pocked and also into the mud.

It was only my left side that fell in the mud properly, but my left hand, sleeve, and jeans leg were ruined. Covered in fucking mud. My phone was also muddy but thankfully not broken. I felt so enraged and deflated. I’d gone from being utterly content, to being frustrated, embarrassed, and covered in shit. I had to walk home like this. A good ten-to-fifteen minute walk.

Mark 1 - 2 Cunting World.

The dying moments of the game. Corner kick to me. All or nothing lads. Keeper goes up, in a desperate bid to redeem himself for giving away the corner earlier that led to their goal. Corner taken, punched away by their goalie. Picked up by their full back who bombs up the wing with it. All of their attackers in pursuit. My keeper struggling to get back - fitness not his strongest asset either. The full back lays it across and their striker taps it into an empty net. Could have been any of the three that were in the box. It’s all over, and everyone knows it. There’s no coming back from that.

I gambled and lost.

There’s always next year.

After that, I’m finished my first year of college. I hope to do a lengthy review of the whole year, in terms of Trinity itself, the BESS course I’m doing, and general observations.

Gotta try get some sort of study done so this brief post will end here. Normal (slightly more frequent) blogging to resume next week.

So in the time after the ball, I should be studying pretty intensely, yeah?

Anyway. When collecting my ticket for the ball on Friday, I was given a packet of condoms and a box of jellybeans. Score.

Today, nearly a week after the ball, and with three days until my exams, I opened my school bag, and there lay the condoms and the jellybeans.

Here are the reasons why this is depressing :

1. I clearly have not done any study since the ball. I literally hadn’t opened my fucking school bag.

2. I clearly have not been neglecting my studies for what is possibly the only justifiable reason - Monkey business. Doing the deed. Banging. Nookie. It. Sexual intercourse.

3. I opened the pack, hoping to be cheered up by some sugar (yes, I opened the jellybeans, before any wisearse pipes up with a poshwank joke! I know how some of your minds work - just like mine) and got a fucking Cafe Latte flavoured one (again, I’m talking about jellybeans). I would genuinely prefer to pop a rabbit turd in my expectant gob.

A gentle reminder from the world, have sex study.

The ball was good though, despite the atrocious line-up.

And I’ve just gotten an apple flavoured jellybean. Everything’s comin’ up Walsho!

Tuesday’s scoreline at 8am : Mark 1 - 0 Cunting World.

Had breakfast, showered, got ready and out the door - all without a hitch.

I was defending my lead. Defending it gallantly. Got men behind the ball, closing the opposition down early. Frustrating the world.

So I stroll to my bus stop. Early. Early and smug. Then I look and see that the slip road (through which the bus comes) is blocked off with road works. Fuck. The world’s equalised.

Mark 1 - 1 Cunting World. I tried to play them offside, but he timed his run to perfection, ran through and dinked it over the keeper.

So I mention this problem to the middle-aged woman who’s also waiting at the bus stop. Being a middle-aged woman at a bus stop, it took quite a bit of explaining, after clarifying that it was nothing to do with the recent bus strike (ah, the poor dear). Along came another woman midway through my explaining, and then the three of us decided we must go to the next operating bus stop, a few hundred yards away.

So, me and these two middle-aged women strangers begin walking. It was odd. On the way to the next stop that would be in use that day, we had to pass by another stop, at which there was a couple who were in their mid-twenties I’d say. So we had to explain to them what was going on, and recruit them on our hike. It was a little surreal.

In the football analogy this is when a streaker comes onto the pitch and nobody really knows what to do.

As we approach the bus stop, we can see a bus coming around the corner. I’m in the middle of the little group we’ve gathered, so I mention to the people in front (the young-ish couple) that we may have to run to get that bus. Given that the other people were part of the general public, they heard me, but didn’t seem to comprehend that if we did not run, we would miss the bus. They motioned as if they were going to run, but then just took a few faster walking strides, before returning to normal pace.

The world had just been given a penalty. A penalty that should never have been given.

I won the fucking ball ref.

No you didn’t son, he got there first. Now back off and let’s get on with it.

This is a fucking joke, I know I got the ball.

Anymore of that and you’re booked.

Fuck’s sake.

So I squeeze by and run to catch the bus. I run, doing that stupid looking “arm-out to flag down the bus” thing. The driver stops and I get on, panting a little.

Penalty saved! And we cleared the rebound.

I ask the driver to wait a few seconds, for the rest of the people, as our normal bus stop wasn’t in service. He nods, understanding the situation. The people trod along like a pack of fucking tortoises. Terminally ill tortoises. I sort of wait to see if they get on, before taking a seat. They get on. I await a nod, smile or word of thanks from them as they clamber on.

Nothing. Not a fucking thing. Pack of ungrateful cunts. After I’d explained to the first lot about the bus route being off, then ran for the bus and got the driver to wait for all of them. Nothing. Next time I’d push the bastards off the bus and piss all over them before we drive off. Does anyone think I went to the effort of that for anything other than receiving a word of thanks? Of course not.

Mark 1 - 2 Cunting World. Caught me on the break. My centre backs had gone up for a corner, the world cleared it, their speedy left winger latched onto it and layed it across for their lazy centre forward to tap it into the net.

Towards the end of the bus journey we stopped outside a park. There were deer in there. Antlers and all. I liked this.

Mark 2-2 Cunting World. A late equaliser. Route one football. Big goal kick, flick on from my burly striker, first touch finish from his “what he lacks in height he makes up for in tenacity” striking partner. Opposition are dumb-struck. They’d gotten complacent.

We’ve still got the second leg to come, but it’s an exciting tie thus far.

“REMEMBER WHEN A CHOCOLATE MOUSTACHE MADE YOU LOOK COOL?”

There was never ever a time, in any place, for any person, at any age, where a chocolate moustache was cool. Also, chocolate moustaches don’t really exist do they?

Perhaps a chocolate milk moustache, but not a chocolate moustache. You only ever get crappy flicks of chocolate at the corners of your mouth.

My suggestion for their slogan?

“REMEMBER WHEN OUR ICE CREAMS WEREN’T SO SHIT AND OVERPRICED?”

Back in the day you’d get a Feast or a Loop the Loop for 30-40p. And they were fucking good. Last time I had a loop the loop the chocolate was far too thin for my liking. It was difficult to eat it in my desired way (biting all the chocolate off first, then lashing into the yellow-green goodness). And I vowed, never again.

It’s Calippos from here on in my friends. And if you should be so lucky to find somewhere in Ireland selling the strawberry ones, you are well within your rights to rejoice. I remember getting so excited on holidays because of the different flavours of ice creams over there.

Always remember kids, when you’re eating a Calippo and you can’t push the ice cream up enough, as it’s too frozen, the trick is to bite the bottom. Bite it like a motherfucker and enjoy that Calippo.

S’later.